by Jennifer Youngsun Ryu, Summer Minister

First Unitarian Church

Portland, Oregon

“I love the silence in church before the service.”  Ralph Waldo Emerson said that.

I love it too.

When I was a congregant sitting in the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore, I especially loved the silence right before the sermon.

After the hymns and the announcements; after the choir and the offering, someone would turn down the overhead lights until only one light remained shining on the pulpit.

I would put my hymnal and order of service in the rack in front of me, sink down into the velvety green pew cushions, and wait.

That stillness was the stillness of something about to happen.

That Silence was the silence of something about to be created.

And in that place, I could hear my heart talking to me.

Words that rise out of a cultivated silence are words generated by the human heart.

But where there is no silence, where there is only the roar of the verbally-intense, media-saturated world outside this sanctuary, words don’t rise. They bounce off the top of our heads. These words are not generated from our hearts, they are recycled, reprocessed words, clichés, imitations, mechanical words, dead words.

And when we talk from the top of our heads instead of the bottom of our hearts, the words often come out wrong: off target, empty, lacking intimacy, not what we really meant to say, leaving us pained and saddened. So much so that we are tempted to think it might be better not to speak at all.

A friend of mine once took a linguistics class where the instructor assigned everyone to keep a Speech Diary.  Like the Food Diary you would keep if you were trying to lose weight, the Speech Diary was a log of every spoken word.

If you and I had kept Speech Diaries last week, what would our words reveal?

Like the Food Diary, I’m sure it would show good days and not so good days.  Days of kale and brown rice right next to days of French fries and ice cream. Days of deeply felt words like “I want to tell you how I really feel,” right next to days of untrue words, unkind words, words that bumped painfully into wounds, and words that should have been there, but went unsaid—again.

Paging through our Speech Diaries, we feel the sting of regret and “ugh!” Where does that regret come from? I believe it’s the regret of missed opportunity:  the missed opportunity for greater intimacy, the missed chance for deeper connection between my feelings and my speaking; between me and the other person.

A father and son sit on opposite sides of the small kitchen table and face each other.      The Father is 73 and in failing health. The Son hasn’t been home in over 30 years. 

It’s difficult to know how to begin. It’s a late summer night. The Father says, “Well, this is some year for acorns!” The Son responds, “The crows have made an impressive showing.  And the gourds are particularly shapely and abundant, I think.” (adapted, Gilead by Marilynne Robinson)

All the time they are looking at each other as if to say, “Could we just be honest with each other for five minutes?”

They shift uncomfortably in their chairs, then say goodnight.

No one said anything unkind or harsh or untrue, but oh, the missed opportunity. It may not come again.

Small talk about the weather, idle chatter about acorns & crows: these have their place and time.

But we should pay attention to the times when we use this speech as a protective wall, keeping us from connecting with our true self and with others. 

We are ambivalent about our desires. Sometimes our hearts are screaming to be heard, yearning to be known, and yet we will not speak, or we cover up those screams with small talk.

Highly articulate speech can be another level of small talk. It’s smooth talk: glib, facile, and intelligent.  It can be about control, rather than freedom. It can be used to communicate less, rather than more. It can be used to keep a conversation in the shallows, rather than risk emotional depth.

There is nothing inherently wrong with articulate speech. There are situations where mastery of the spoken word is desirable.

But when you review your Speech Diary, if you find a lot of small talk or “articulate speech” in there, ask yourself about the times when you felt sad or dissatisfied afterwards.

Where were you? Who were you talking to? Was it someone you wanted to have a closer relationship with? Was it someone you wished knew you better? Did you speak this way because you were afraid of the silence?

It’s okay to fear the silence. Silence is a powerful force. After all, before the creation of everything, there was an awesome silence.

Out of the silence unexpected emotions can arise:  doubt, anxiety, and insecurity.

True self comes closer to the surface and with it, the fear that our true self is unworthy.

It’s not surprising then, that we try to flood the air with words and kill the silence.

Unitarian Universalists have inherited eloquent words and brilliant ideas from our religious forbearers.  The well-articulated thought still captivates us, engages and motivates us.

But when we face each other to say the most important things in life, when we face our children or speak to our beloved; we need speech that comes from a place deeper than our intellect.

In those times, we must remember, “that we live more deeply than we can think.”  Theologian Bernard Meland observed this, and adds, “no formulation of truth—out of language we use—can be adequate for expressing what is real…in the mystery of existing, in the mystery of dying” (Bernard E. Meland, Fallible Forms & Symbols, 1977).

If we indeed live more deeply than we can think, then words born of the intellect, spoken with eloquence, are not powerful enough to reach into the deepest places from which we live.

What is powerful enough? 

Love.  Not romantic, erotic love, but love for your neighbor and love for self, without condition.

Love is how I understand the word God. I believe love is a power that is both beyond me and part of me. Love accepts everyone, and excludes no one. Love is a force that always bends towards the good, and cherishes the reality of life, which includes death and brokenness.

Every one of you has this ability to love.  It may be covered up in some of you, or a little rusty from lack of use, and it shines brightly in others.  But you all have it.

Only Love is powerful enough to overcome the fear that we aren’t good enough or smart enough, or articulate enough.   This was the lesson the apostle Paul was trying to teach the church in Corinth.

In the year 50, in those first decades after the death of Jesus, a small group of his followers founded a church in the city of Corinth, in Greece.  Corinth was a young city, but its strategic location near two seaports helped it to grow into the largest city in ancient Greece

Freed slaves from other Roman colonies originally settled Corinth.  As the city grew, it brought great personal wealth to a class of self-made people.  It was a place where you could make money and move up in society.

Like many busy commercial centers, like today’s London or New York, Corinth was full of well-traveled, well-read people. Those who could speak multiple languages were admired. Eloquence and intelligence were prized.

Paul worried that his small band of believers was trying to reach out to the Greeks in Corinth using fine speech and intellect rather than heart.

So he wrote them a letter: “I am writing to God’s church in Corinth,” he starts,

“God has enriched your church in every way, with all of your eloquent words and all of your knowledge.  Now you have every spiritual gift you need.” (1 Corinthians 1:5)

Further in the letter, Paul writes,

“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” (1Corinthians 13:1)

On one hand, he is warning them that speaking many languages can be ostentation.  Even speaking in the “tongues of angels,” presumably the most beautiful and exalted speech, if not spoken from love, will leave the speaker a noisy, clanging instrument.

On the other hand, Paul holds out a promise: the promise that no matter how the words come out, if a person speaks from love, they will be a source of blessing, and a source of healing to others and they will be worthy and loved.  In other words, if you speak from love, you can’t get it wrong.  If you speak from love, your words will always be worthy.

What does speech sound like when it is connected to love? It could sound like singing, it could sound like groaning, it could sound like sobbing.

Don’t be surprised if words don’t come at all. Don’t be surprised if the heart doesn’t spin out perfect paragraphs. Don’t be surprised if it comes out as the poet Lorca describes: “as a stammer.” Naming the heart’s voice, “Deep Song,” he calls it a “stammer, a wavering emission of the voice.”

There’s a story of a woman who was traveling though a small town. She had heard that one of the preachers was unusually gifted and people were always touched by his sermons. So she went to hear the preacher. It turned out, the preacher had quite a noticeable speech impediment, and the visitor could barely understand what he said. When she commented on this to one of the church members, the person simply replied, “Oh, we can barely understand him either, but did you see the Light beaming from his face, hear the Love in his voice, and feel the Spirit flowing from him? We leave here every week with Light and Love and Spirit! What more could one ask?”

This story reminds me of another preacher who inspired and led a congregation despite his stuttering.

He was the ultimate “reluctant prophet.”

Out of the flame of the burning bush, the voice of God spoke to Moses. “Moses, our people are in distress, suffering as slaves under the Egyptians. I want you to go to Pharaoh, demand the release of every Israelite, then I want you to lead the people out of Egypt.”

“But, they will not believe me or listen to my voice”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” God assured.

“Oh, my Lord, I am not eloquent… I am slow of speech and of tongue.”

“Don’t you understand that it is I who makes a person’s mouth? Now go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall speak.”

But Moses protested again. “Please, Lord, send someone else!”

God was angry by this point, but he let Moses deputize his brother Aaron as his spokesman, his mouthpiece when he needed him. 

What mattered was not what God heard in Moses’ speech, what mattered was what God saw in Moses’ heart.

This same capacity for self-love, love for others, for speaking the truth, dwells in every person, whether it is Moses speaking to the Israelites, or it’s you speaking to the person in the payroll department.

YOU ARE BLESSED WITH THE POWER OF LOVE. And what your heart has to say is just right.

The only thing that’s in the way is your fear. Fear that your heart’s Deep Song isn’t pretty enough, smart enough, you don’t need the tongues of angels, you don’t need to speak a hundred languages, you don’t need to be articulate, clever, or brilliant all you need to do is love yourself enough to speak simply from your heart.

PRAYER

Spirit of Life,

We are grateful for the gift of love.

May we use it well,

to unveil the hidden treasures

to awaken our souls

to inspire, breathe life into our days

to raise our minds from the sleep of our daily routines

to encourage and build up others,

to extend grace to all.

Blessed Be.  Amen.